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Bukele Is Using a Familiar Pattern to Dismantle El Salvador''s Democracy

Bukele's Playbook: Echoes of Authoritarianism in El Salvador's Democratic Erosion

In the heart of Central America, El Salvador's President Nayib Bukele is orchestrating a systematic overhaul of the nation's institutions, employing tactics that bear striking resemblances to those used by other populist leaders who have veered toward authoritarianism. This pattern, often characterized by the consolidation of power, erosion of checks and balances, and suppression of dissent, is not new. It has been seen in places like Venezuela under Hugo Chávez and Nicolás Maduro, Nicaragua under Daniel Ortega, and even in Hungary under Viktor Orbán. Bukele, the millennial leader who rose to prominence with a tech-savvy image and promises of radical change, is now drawing international scrutiny for what critics describe as a deliberate dismantling of democratic safeguards in El Salvador.

Bukele's ascent began in 2019 when he won the presidency as an outsider, capitalizing on widespread frustration with the country's entrenched political parties, rampant corruption, and escalating gang violence. His administration quickly gained popularity through bold moves, such as deploying the military to combat MS-13 and Barrio 18 gangs, and adopting Bitcoin as legal tender in a bid to modernize the economy. These initiatives, while controversial, resonated with a populace weary of decades of instability following the civil war that ended in 1992. However, beneath the veneer of innovation and security gains, a more insidious strategy has unfolded—one that prioritizes executive control over institutional independence.

A pivotal moment in this trajectory came in February 2020, when Bukele dramatically entered the Legislative Assembly accompanied by armed soldiers, demanding approval for a loan to fund his security plan. This act of intimidation set a tone for what would follow. Critics argue it was a harbinger of Bukele's willingness to bend or break democratic norms to achieve his goals. Fast forward to May 2021, and the pattern intensified. After his Nuevas Ideas party secured a supermajority in legislative elections, the new assembly promptly ousted the attorney general and all five magistrates of the Supreme Court's Constitutional Chamber. In their place, Bukele loyalists were installed, effectively neutering judicial oversight.

This judicial purge mirrors strategies employed by other leaders who have sought to eliminate obstacles to their authority. In Venezuela, Chávez packed the Supreme Court with allies, paving the way for indefinite re-elections and the suppression of opposition. Similarly, in Nicaragua, Ortega has systematically dismantled independent institutions, including the judiciary and electoral bodies, to ensure his perpetual grip on power. Bukele's moves, while perhaps less overtly violent, follow a similar blueprint: first, gain popular support through visible achievements; second, leverage that support to capture legislative power; third, use that power to reshape the judiciary and other oversight mechanisms.

The implications for El Salvador's democracy are profound. With the judiciary under executive influence, accountability has plummeted. For instance, investigations into corruption allegations against Bukele's administration have stalled, and human rights abuses—particularly in the context of the ongoing state of emergency declared in March 2022—have gone unchecked. That emergency decree, aimed at curbing gang violence, has led to the arrest of over 60,000 suspected gang members, but it has also resulted in widespread reports of arbitrary detentions, torture, and extrajudicial killings. Human rights organizations like Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch have condemned these actions, drawing parallels to the "mano dura" (iron fist) policies of past regimes that exacerbated cycles of violence rather than resolving them.

Bukele's approach extends beyond the judiciary to the media and civil society. Independent journalists and outlets have faced harassment, including cyber attacks, smear campaigns on social media, and even exile. Bukele, a master of digital communication with millions of followers on platforms like Twitter, often labels critics as "enemies of the people" or accuses them of being funded by foreign interests. This rhetoric not only delegitimizes opposition but also fosters a polarized environment where dissent is equated with disloyalty. In a country where press freedom was already fragile, these tactics have pushed El Salvador down global rankings, evoking memories of how Maduro in Venezuela nationalized media outlets and Ortega in Nicaragua shuttered independent broadcasters.

Economically, Bukele's Bitcoin gamble serves as both a distraction and a tool for centralization. While proponents hail it as a forward-thinking move to attract investment and reduce reliance on remittances, skeptics point to the volatility and lack of transparency in its implementation. The government's Chivo wallet app, meant to facilitate Bitcoin transactions, has been plagued by technical issues and allegations of fraud. More critically, the opacity surrounding the Bitcoin City project—a proposed tax haven powered by volcanic energy—raises questions about accountability. By tying economic policy so closely to his personal vision, Bukele further entrenches his authority, making it difficult for successors or opponents to unwind his initiatives without risking public backlash.

Internationally, Bukele's actions have strained relations, particularly with the United States. The Biden administration has imposed sanctions on several Bukele allies for corruption and undermining democracy, and U.S. officials have voiced concerns over the erosion of the rule of law. Yet, Bukele has deftly played the anti-imperialist card, portraying foreign criticism as interference in Salvadoran sovereignty. This narrative resonates domestically, bolstering his image as a defender against external threats. It's a tactic straight out of the authoritarian playbook, seen in how Orbán in Hungary has rallied support by framing EU criticisms as attacks on national pride.

Despite these concerns, Bukele's popularity remains sky-high, with approval ratings often exceeding 80%. His success in reducing homicide rates—from over 50 per 100,000 in 2018 to around 18 in 2022—has won him genuine admiration. Many Salvadorans, scarred by years of gang dominance and political dysfunction, view his strongman tactics as necessary medicine. This public support is the linchpin of his strategy, allowing him to push boundaries that might otherwise provoke widespread resistance. However, history suggests that such consolidations of power rarely end well for democracy. In Venezuela, initial popularity gave way to economic collapse and mass exodus; in Nicaragua, it led to brutal crackdowns on protests.

As El Salvador approaches its next electoral cycle, with Bukele eyeing re-election despite constitutional term limits (which his controlled court has conveniently reinterpreted), the question looms: Can the country reverse this trajectory? Opposition figures, fragmented and under pressure, struggle to mount a unified challenge. Civil society groups continue to document abuses and advocate for reforms, but their voices are increasingly marginalized. International pressure, including from the Organization of American States, could play a role, but Bukele's adept use of social media and populist appeals complicates intervention.

Ultimately, Bukele's pattern is familiar because it exploits the vulnerabilities of fragile democracies: public disillusionment, security crises, and the allure of quick fixes. By dismantling institutions under the guise of efficiency and security, he risks transforming El Salvador from a budding democracy into a hybrid regime where power is concentrated in one man's hands. The long-term costs—erosion of freedoms, potential economic instability, and social division—may outweigh the short-term gains. As observers watch closely, the story of Bukele serves as a cautionary tale for other nations grappling with populist temptations, reminding us that the path to authoritarianism is often paved with good intentions and overwhelming public approval.

In reflecting on this, it's clear that Bukele's methods, while innovative in their digital flair, adhere to a timeless script of power consolidation. The dismantling of democratic guardrails doesn't happen overnight; it's a gradual process, justified step by step, until the structure collapses. For El Salvador, the challenge now is to recognize this pattern before it's too late, fostering a return to balanced governance that honors the sacrifices made during its hard-won peace. Whether Bukele's experiment will lead to sustainable progress or deeper entrenchment of autocracy remains an open question, but the echoes from similar regimes around the world suggest a perilous road ahead.

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